


Homeless Network

by beckettemory



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Homelessness, Original Character(s), POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:08:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckettemory/pseuds/beckettemory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laila is a homeless girl getting by on her own. That is, until one Sherlock Holmes asks her to be part of his network of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homeless Network

I first met Sherlock Holmes in Regent’s Park three years ago on a chilly November day. I was sitting in my daytime spot near the tennis courts. My belongings, a single change of clothes, two blankets, an umbrella, a reusable water bottle, two paperbacks, a few odds and ends, and a wool hat, were stuffed in my battered old backpack at my side. My sign and change cup sat in front of me and I played on my wooden flute to keep the boredom at bay.  
It was getting colder when he showed up, obviously on the lookout for kids like me. He stopped in front of me, blocking the sunlight to where I couldn’t see his face, only his silhouette.  
“Spare a pound, sir?” I asked quietly.  
“If you’ll help me,” came his reply, a smooth baritone that only added to my apprehension. His words frightened me; “help” was not something I liked to give to men of his age, but something they often asked for and occasionally took anyway.  
My nervousness must have shown on my face, because he shifted on his feet for a second, then crouched down and I could see his face.  
At first glance, his facial features were alarming; they didn’t look like they should have gone together at all. He looked to be in his early thirties, with shockingly light eyes set just a bit too far apart, eyebrows heavy and oddly shaped, now drawn together in a squint as he studied me. His lips were full, but professed a large, sharp dip in the middle of his upper lip. His cheeks were much too thin— his whole face was too thin, to be honest— and sharp cheekbones stood out above the hollows of his cheeks. His mop of dark brown curls hung in his eyes, messy and seemingly uncombed for weeks. His body was lean and his legs seemed to go on for miles. He wore a long black double-breasted coat, black trousers and shoes, a blue wool scarf, and a bit of light blue showed under his scarf at his collar. All of his clothes looked expensive.  
He remained in a crouch for perhaps thirty seconds before speaking.  
“You don’t trust me,” he stated. I blinked. “You’ve no reason to, of course, we’ve only just met. I, however, know quite a bit about you and trust you implicitly.”  
I stared incredulously. “What?”  
He smiled before launching into a speech so complicated and fast that he scarce paused to breathe.  
“I know you’ve been homeless for a little over a year and that your mother was the one who kicked you out. I know you had a drug problem—prescription pills, to be precise— but have since gotten yourself clean. Good for you. I know you left school around the time you got kicked out of the house but are trying to continue your studies. I guess your age to be around 17 or 18, nineteen at the most. I know you are left handed, do not sleep here, but rather somewhere underground, and have a close friend, possibly another homeless person, who has a large, short-haired dog. And lastly, I know that with the last sum of money you were given, you bought food and a cup of coffee, not drugs or liquor, and are worthy of my trust. How did I do?” He asked, his face eager for approval.  
I stared at him a moment. “Perfect. Spot on,” I sputtered.  
He beamed, looking proud of himself.  
“May I ask your name?” he asked, standing and offering his hand to me.  
“I’m Laila,” I answered, taking his hand cautiously and standing with his help. He held my hand for a moment.  
“Sherlock Holmes,” he introduced himself, then shook the hand he still held and dropped it  
“Laila, do you own a mobile?” He asked.  
“No, sir.”  
“Get your things. I’ll buy you one,” he said decisively.  
“Oh, no sir, I couldn’t—”  
“The help I require involves contacting you on the phone,” he interrupted me impatiently.  
I hesitated, then nodded and bent down to gather my things, acutely aware of his presence behind me. When I straightened back up, he walked off, expecting me to follow. Against my better judgement, I did.  
He led me out of the park and down the street, then into Tesco’s. I paused at the door. The management had kicked me out on more than one occasion. Mr. Holmes sensed I wasn’t following, and motioned impatiently for me to follow him. I did. He levelled a warning glare at each employee in sight, and each he thereafter encountered. He stalked off, surprisingly graceful on his long legs, to the section of the store where they sold pay-as-you-go mobiles. He studied them for a moment.  
“Pick one out,” he ordered.  
I quickly studied the mobiles and took the least expensive, my cheeks burning. Mr. Holmes made a small noise and walked off, expecting me to follow once again. He led me to the cashier and paid for the mobile silently.  
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” he asked as he handed the mobile to me and we exited the shop.  
“Not long,” I lied. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at me until I met his eyes.  
“How long, Laila?”  
I looked down at my torn shoes, my cheeks burning red. “Three days, sir,” I whispered.  
He nodded and turned back the way we had just come. “Come on.”  
I followed him, wondering at what cost all this kindness would come.  
I was led to a nearby chip shop. Inside he glanced up at the menu and then turned to me.  
“Order whatever you like.”  
I chose carefully, selecting a meat and potato pie that would keep me full for at least a day combined with the chips that came with it. After I ordered, Mr. Holmes ordered two coffees and paid for it all. He gestured for me to sit at one of the tables. A minute later he sat across from me and passed me the food and one of the coffees. I began scarfing down the food, burning my mouth a few times but unable to slow down. Mr. Holmes eyed me curiously, then pulled a mobile out of his pocket and tapped at it for a few minutes.  
As I swallowed the last bite, Mr. Holmes put his mobile back in his pocket and leaned forward.  
“Now then,” he began. “Your assistance.”  
I found myself tensing up reflexively, though I was in public and therefore moderately safe.  
“I am a consulting detective. I assist the police on some cases and take cases of my own. I find myself often in need of eyes around London for intelligence-gathering purposes. I already have a network of sorts in place consisting of homeless people like yourself. I ask that during the daylight hours you stay in one place—perhaps where I found you today?—so that I may find you if I’m in the area. If not, or if it’s nighttime, I’ll contact you via mobile. Follow me so far?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Good. The protocols I’ll ask you to follow are thus: I contact you with the information I need. You relocate to the area in question and observe under the guise of begging for money. After approximately six hours, I will meet you at your daytime spot in the park, you will pass me a paper with your observations written on it (you should keep a pen and pad of paper with you for these instances) and I will pay you for your efforts and time.”  
He paused, seeking confirmation that I was still listening, and I nodded. He leaned in closer and lowered his voice.  
“There may come a time when I need your assistance, along with several others’, on a more…. hands on level. I cannot say more than that now as I don’t know what it may entail. I am letting you know now, as I need your confirmation that in that event I may rely on you.”  
I nodded slowly, pondering if it was worth it even as I said yes. He smiled.  
“Good. The code word for that instance will be ‘milk’. Just that, sent as a text message, and you will know to respond with ‘getting it on my way home’ and await further instructions. Is that clear?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
He stood and I followed suit.  
“I’ll be in touch,” he said, and took my hand and shook it, then turned and left the shop quickly, clearly not wishing to be followed. I felt something in my palm and stared down at it.  
Two £20 notes and a £10 note were folded together in my hand.


End file.
